


the growing season

by parsnipit



Category: Solar Opposites
Genre: Alien Culture, Family Fluff, Gen, Pre-Canon, Protective Korvo, i just really wanted to explore korvo n yumyulack's relationship, in which korvo accidentally develops paternal instincts, korvo doesnt know how to be a dad but hes trying !!!, of a very strange sort, weird alien biology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24742366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsnipit/pseuds/parsnipit
Summary: Creating replicants is a simple process.Raising them is not.
Relationships: Korvotron "Korvo" & Yumyulack (Solar Opposites)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 79





	the growing season

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: injuries, blood, medical procedures, needles, references to violence/death

Creating replicants is a simple process. Korvo arrives at the replication centre early in the growing season, when the plants outside have only just begun to peek out of the dirt. The centre is busy this time of year, as it should be. Every Schlorpian with an ounce of common sense wants their replicants sprouting while it’s warm and damp outside, and while the atmosphere is unburdened by frosts or shardstorms. He checks in at the receptionist’s desk and takes a seat in the waiting room, crossing his legs and reaching for a magazine to stave off his boredom.

“Is this your first batch?” the purple next to him asks a few moments later.

Korvo closes his magazine, carefully smoothing the pages down with his fingers. He’s not sure which he prefers—a dull conversation or a dull magazine. “Yes,” he says. “I reached replicating age during the last freeze. You?”

“This will be my second,” the purple says, her eyes glittering with excitement. “Four out of my last batch survived. They’re all training for their careers, now.”

“Four is a number to be proud of,” Korvo says, shooting her an admiring glance. “I’m sure they’ll be a fine contribution to the society.”

“Oh, I hope. I’ve not met any of them since they were sprouts, but I want to.”

Korvo arches an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I know, I know, it’s odd, but—I suppose I got a little attached,” the purple admits, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly. “Maybe it’s best I don’t try to meet them.”

“Mm, yes. That probably would be best.”

Everyone knows it’s a fool who gets attached to their replicants. By the time a Schlorpian is old enough to tree, they could have replicated on hundreds of occasions—besides, the only commonality a progenitor and their replicants share is genetic information, and that’s hardly enough to forge a bond on. Korvo knows better. Replicants are a duty and a debt owed to Schlorp’s utopia, but they aren’t something to care about beyond that.

Fortunately, Korvo doesn’t have to endure any more of the purple’s wistful musings, as his extractioner arrives and leads him to a small, clinical room. Once the door hisses shut behind them, he pulls his robes over his head and takes a seat near the wall. The extractioner fusses with their equipment, then turns to smile politely at him.

“All ready?” they ask. 

“Yes, I am.”

“Wonderful. Just hold still for a moment while I disinfect.” The extractioner smears orange goo across the side of his stomach, and the goo sizzles painlessly before evaporating. Next, they reach for their syringe of numbing serum. They slide the needle under his skin, and Korvo winces and holds his breath. A few seconds later, a large swatch of his stomach goes numb, and his shoulders relax in relief.

“It’s numb now,” he informs the extractioner. “Please proceed.”

The extractioner takes up their scalpel, and they slice out of a chunk of the soft flesh near the side of his stomach. They put the flesh on ice, and Korvo watches with rising nausea as slick blue blood begins to roll down his side and soak into the waistband of his leggings. Huh. He hadn’t expected that part to disturb as much as it evidently has. The extractioner cauterizes the wound before it can bleed anymore, taping a square of gauze over it. 

“There you are,” they say, setting his chunk of flesh into a small container and sliding it into the freezer. “All done. We’ll update you on the status of your batch regularly, so do watch your alert system. Keep the wound clean and please return if there are any problems or questions.”

Korvo pulls his robes back on, then takes his leave. That’s it. That’s all it takes to create a replicant—on his end, at least. The gardeners will have their work cut out for them nurturing the replicants until they’re old enough to survive on their own, but Korvo doesn’t need to concern himself with that part. His duty is to produce replicants, not to raise them. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

Creating replicants is a simple process. Raising them is not.

After Korvo leaves the replication centre, he doesn’t expect to have much to do with any of his replicants—and at first, he doesn’t. He receives regular alerts about his batch to let him know where they’re planted and how many have sprouted. Forty-two sprout in the weeks following their sowing, and that’s a number he’s proud enough to boast about at work. Several months later, however, the number has dwindled severely. That’s to be expected, of course. Growing replicants is a complicated process, and even in the growing season the sprouts regularly succumb to rots and mildews and sun stress. Of course, Schlorp has medical technology that could keep a whole batch alive, were it warranted—but it’s simply too expensive a proposition. If only one or two replicants survive per batch, well, that’s plenty. There’s no reason to waste time and expense trying to keep all forty-two alive.

Six months later, only three of Korvo’s replicants survive. That’s a fine number, in his opinion, but his coworker, Ashwynn, boasts about her eight surviving sprouts—and she has pictures to prove it. They’re ugly little things, as all replicants are, but they’re strong and healthy. Jealousy seethes in Korvo’s stomach, and he makes his fatal mistake, then: he goes to see his own replicants.

“This one is A23,” the gardener tending to his replicants explains, pointing to one of the sprouts. Only its head pokes above the soil, and its eyes are still milky, useless bulbs in its pudgy face. It strains up towards the gardener when they approach anyhow, and Korvo suspects its auditory organs have already developed. “It’s a hearty little guy. It had powdery mildew a few weeks back, but it pulled through without a blemish.”

“Hm.” Korvo snaps a picture to show off to his coworkers so they’ll all praise  _ his  _ replicants, too. They’re prettier than Ashwynn’s, that’s for sure—their color is developing nicely already. Ashwynn’s were still drab gray and undappled. “What about the others?”

“This is A15,” the gardener says, pointing to the second sprout where it grows a few feet away from the first. A15 is larger, and it whistles sharply at them as they approach. It’s the most colorful of the three, already a bright blue with dark spots spattering the top of its head. Not a single hint of gray mars its color, Korvo notes with pride. “This last one is A34. It also caught the mildew, but it hasn’t bounced back as well as A23 did.”

Korvo swings his gaze over to A34 and grimaces. It’s a tiny sprout, its eyes barely above the tilled dirt. Its skin is pale gray, bare of any proud Schlorpian dapples. It doesn’t react as he approaches it, and for a moment he fears it’s dead. What a disappointment that would be. He reaches down and pokes it—only then does it stir, shifting weakly in the dirt and making a faint, faded noise that Korvo supposes wants to be a whistle. 

“Oh,” Korvo says. “It’s still alive.”

“Barely,” the gardener admits. “We treated the whole acre for the mildew, and it has all the fertilizer it could want, but...well, don’t be surprised if only two make it out of this batch.”

Korvo grimaces.

“Hey, two is a good number, especially for a first-timer! Better than none, right?” the gardener says, patting his arm. 

“Yes,” Korvo says. “I suppose that’s true. Well, I’d better be going. Let me know when the little one dies.”

Korvo only shows off two of his replicants at work the next day, and every day following he waits for the alert that will let him know A34 has died. But the weeks pass, and no alert comes. When one  _ does  _ come, it’s to let him know that A15 has died. He thinks that has to be some kind of typo. A15 was thriving! They must have meant A34, surely? 

Rather irked by such an obvious clerical error, Korvo makes his way back to the replicant gardens. When he discovers that it’s no mistake and A15 was killed by a sudden bout of ergot, he’s crushed. A15 had been, for very reasonable reasons, his favorite. Maybe it would have grown up to be an archivist, or an enforcer, or—or a researcher, like him! Now he’s left with only two replicants: the very average A23 and runty, disappointing A34. 

The third time he visits the replicant gardens is after A23 dies because someone steps on it. That’s a fucking bummer, to say the least. 

“How do you just _step on one?”_ Korvo shrieks at his commhub when the alert arrives. “Th-they’re fucking giant blue heads growing out of—of dirt! For fuck’s sake, you had _one job—”_

Needless to say, he’s pissed. He storms to the gardens that afternoon and glowers at the dull, damp dirt where A23 had been crushed to death by an adult Schlorpian’s careless boot. His hands ball into fists at his sides. One. That’s all he has left: one. And it’s not even a good one! He spins around to glare at A34. Its head has completely emerged (about damn time) and there’s a dull blue tint to its skin now. Still no dapples. Still no eyesight. Still the weakest whistle Korvo’s ever had the misfortune of hearing.

“‘scuse me, sir,” a gardener says, setting a cooler down beside him. 

Korvo scowls. He’s busy wallowing in self-pity, here. He doesn’t exactly want to be interrupted. “What are you doing?”

“Sowing,” the gardener explains, reaching into the cooler and pulling out a small container. When he opens it, Korvo glimpses several small cubes of green flesh. “Empty dirt need be filled.”

The gardener spritzes one of the cubes with nutrients, then buries it several inches into the empty soil beside A34—the soil where another one of Korvo’s replicants had sat before it died, undoubtedly. Korvo’s chest curdles with the beginnings of rage, and he swallows hard and forces himself to walk away from his failure of a first batch. He doesn’t return for several months, after that, busying himself with work. He tries to comfort himself with the fact that he can try again next growing season—and the next, and the next, and the next. He’ll have hundreds of chances before he trees. 

Then he gets an alert from the replication centre telling him that A34’s eyes have cleared. He finds himself back in the gardens, after that, if only because of his disbelief. He can’t fathom how this one is still alive.

“Well,” he says somewhat irritably, crouching in front of A34. It feels like an insult, that this miserable replicant should survive and not any of the others. “Look at you, tough guy.”

It’s still smaller than it should be, its skin a pasty baby blue instead of Korvo’s deep, vibrant (and very sexy, if he does say so himself) color. It finally has dapples, although they’re weak and gray. Its eyes are clear and pale, and its pupils track him as he moves. When it yawns, he sees toothless gums and the gaping black pit at the back of its throat. It smacks its mouth, then has the nerve to whistle at him.

“Fuck you,” he says. “I’m not your gardener.”

The replicant beside A34—a tiny, bright green thing with a wide mouth—eagerly takes up the call, and before long Korvo is surrounded by squirming, whistling replicants. He shudders in disgust and hastily makes his escape. For almost a year, he doesn’t return. He has no need to. He has no paternal instincts, no bond or loyalty to the creatures grown from his own flesh. DNA is the only thing they share, and that’s not enough to coax any love from him. It is, however, enough to coax his curiosity out—and Korvo has always been guided by curiosity more than love.

When he receives the alert that A34 is breaking soil, that curiosity drives him back to the gardens. The replicant he notices first is not, however, A34. No, it’s the little green replicant next to him. He recalls that it was planted months after A34 was, but it’s grown quicker than A34 has, undeterred by mildews. It’s already halfway above the ground, using its wobbly arms to claw its way out of the dirt. A34 watches it sleepily for a moment before beginning to claw its way up, too. It struggles for a moment, dirt cascading over its shoulders and smearing its face, before slumping back and panting.

“Come on.” Korvo pokes it with the toe of his boot. No replicant of his is going to give up that easily. “Keep going.”

A34 bites him, its toothless mouth clamping down on the heavy leather of his boot. He yelps and jerks away, falling back onto the ground. The little green replicant laughs, and A34 releases his boot and glances over at the noise. 

“Asshole,” Korvo says, wiping gross replicant saliva off of his boot. Still, he can’t help but feel a little fond—A34 has his irritability, so it seems. He stays several hours that day, watching as A34 digs its way above the soil. The green replicant only digs for a couple of hours before it’s out and already trying to climb to its feet. The gardeners come to whisk it away for cleaning, and A34 scowls when it’s taken. Its struggles grow more vigorous after that, and Korvo has to prod it less and less. 

“There you go,” he says when its shoulders finally break ground. It stretches both arms out in front of it, panting in the hot sunlight. “Come on, you’re almost there. That was the hardest part.”

He’s half tempted to reach out and yank it the rest of the way up, but he dares not—what if its root system hasn’t deteriorated entirely and he damages it? He won’t take a risk like that, not with his sole surviving replicant. Instead, he snags a bottle of water from one of the gardeners and spritzes it whenever it quits struggling. It turns its face up into the mist, warbling gratefully, and something in Korvo’s chest turns over in helpless affection. That’s—that’s cute.

Shit, his replicant’s cute.

Er, well—okay, not really. It’s still an ugly bastard, all noodly limbs and pale blue skin and bulbous eyes. But looking at it plucks at some emotion he didn’t know he had, some emotion that lets him see past all that ugly shit and admire its tenacity, its impatience, its determination. He’s proud of it, he realizes suddenly. He hasn’t been proud of it in a long, long time, but—

But even with all of the odds stacked against it, it’s determined to survive. 

“Not bad,” he tells it as it scrambles to get its legs above the soil. It gets one up, then collapses into a weakly-whistling heap. He spritzes its soft, damp skin with nutrients. “Maybe you’ll actually make something of yourself someday. I didn’t think you had it in you, but you just had to prove me wrong, huh?”

Korvo sees himself in this little creature—and for once, that doesn’t repulse him.

It’s nearing sundown by the time A34 kicks its last leg above the soil. It pushes itself onto hands and knees, coughing weakly. It sways, unbalanced, before crawling towards Korvo. Korvo jumps up before it can touch him, suddenly nervous. 

“Gardener!” he calls. “Gardener, this one’s out. Take it away and—and give it a bubble bath or whatever it is you do.”

The gardener comes to collect A34, and Korvo wipes the dirt off of his hands and leaves the gardens. He doesn’t see it for several years, after that, although he does think about it sometimes. He has other batches of replicants, all arguably better than A34, but he can’t quite quit thinking about his first. It’s silly, he knows, and he never mentions it to anyone. He tries not to show undue interest when he receives alerts about A34 (A34 is three years old today; A34 entered the Academy today, S CLASS; A34 has taken his career placement test and will receive results in two weeks).

The alert that really alarms him is the one he recieves on A34’s fifth birthday:  _ A34’s career placement results have been received! Congratulations, he is an S CLASS BOUNTY HUNTER. _

Korvo’s blood runs cold (well, colder than normal, anyhow). Bounty hunter? Why not—why not something quiet and calm and noble, like a scientist or a librarian? Why  _ bounty hunter?  _ There aren’t many violent, dangerous careers on Schlorp, but that’s certainly one of them. Korvo hasn’t come this far to see his stubborn little replicant slaughtered in the line of duty before it even reaches a decade of age! There’s nothing he can do to change A34’s career placement—but maybe there’s something he can do to make it a little easier.

Later that night, Korvo settles down in the lab, and he gets to work.

A couple of weeks later, he arrives at the Academy early in the morning—early enough that the suns haven’t begun to rise. He uses his invisibility gun to make his way onto the campus undetected and quickly locates the administration office. Once there, he rifles through the student papers, glancing briskly over each student’s photo before he finds the one he’s looking for: a scrawny, pasty blue replicant with faded dapples. He scans the page for A34’s locker number and then darts back into the halls to find it.

The locker is a mess, to say the least, and Korvo cringes when he sees it. Could something biologically identical to him really be  _ this  _ disorganized? It’s just awful—but it goes to show, he supposes, that nurture wins over nature every time. He shoves a wadded-up shirt and an open package of veggie snacks out of the way, then sets down a wide, wrapped box where they’d been. The note he tapes to the top of it is simple:  _ Wear this whenever you can. It will keep you safe. _

The suit delivered, Korvo makes his escape just as the first-year replicants begin making their way into the building. He doesn’t see A34 again until the evacuation teams are organized. When his evac counselor gives him his team folder, he’s startled to see a familiar face looking up at him from the papers. A34 looks older than he did in his Academy picture all those years ago, but he’s still that same pale blue. Korvo couldn’t forget that shade if he tried—couldn’t ever forget his stubborn, washed-out firstborn. 

A34’s assigned name, the papers tell him, is Yumyulack.

“Yumyulack,” Korvo mutters under his breath. It’s a proper name, the length matched to Korvo’s own full name. He wonders if Yumyulack goes by a nickname the way Korvo does. Yum? Yumyu? Lack? ...Korvo hopes he doesn’t go by a nickname. 

He and his evacuation partner officially meet their replicants outside of the ship a few days later. Korvo smiles and lifts his hand in a polite greeting, studying his replicant carefully. Yumyulack conducts himself well, a small smile on his face and his ceremonial robes worn correctly, albeit somewhat sloppily. His sign, Korvo notes approvingly, is a diamond—blue, instead of Korvo’s green, but still a diamond. 

“Hey, Korvotron,” Yumyulack says—his voice still cracks around the edges. He sounds painfully young. “I’m Yumyulack.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Yumyulack,” Korvo says. He wants to say more—does Yumyulack remember him? what did the evac counselor tell him about Korvo? does he still have the suit?—but he falters. Rather lamely, he adds, “This is my evacuation partner, Terry. I assume you’ve met his replicant already.”

“He sure has,” the little green replicant says, smiling at him and folding her hands behind her back. “We went to the Academy together. My name’s Jesse, Mr. Korvotron.”

“Please, just Korvo,” Korvo says. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Boo-yah, introductions done!” Terry says cheerfully, clapping Korvo on the shoulder. “What say you we let the replicants get settled in while we finish loading the ship, huh?”

“That sounds like a good idea, Terry. Jesse, Yumyulack, you’ll find the ship map on the control console. Each of you choose a room and begin unpacking. We have a long flight ahead of us,” Korvo says. He watches as the replicants run up the ramp, already shouldering each other in their eagerness to pick the best room. They’ll be disappointed to know each room is identical to the next. 

“So, that’s your rep?” Terry asks as they stroll back to the loading docks.

“Yes. Why?”

“I dunno, he’s just sort of…” Terry’s brow furrows. “Off-color.”

Korvo can’t help himself—he bristles indignantly. “What’s that supposed to mean? You think he isn’t mine?”

“No, no way, man! I’m just curious is all. How come he’s so pale?”

“Why should I know? I didn’t raise him.”

Terry laughs, helping him pick up another crate of repair parts—just in case they happen to crash. Korvo knows that won’t happen. They’ve got him piloting the ship, after all. “I guess that’s fair. I was just wondering if you were pale when you were younger.”

“No. I’ve always been this color.”

“Hey, same! I mean, like, with green, but you get the picture.”

...this is going to be a very long mission. Once they finish loading the ship, Terry goes to retrieve their Pupa while Korvo fusses with the ship controls. As he does, he can't help but rub his fingers across the replicating scar on his stomach. He can barely feel it, through his robes. It's healed well after every batch, patched over with smooth skin, but he knows if he looks he'll see a streak of pale flesh there. (The same color as Yumyulack's skin, now that he thinks of it.)  He yanks his hand back when he hears the click of heavy boots on the floor, only seconds before Yumyulack speaks.

“Where’s the food in this place?”

“Rations are stored in the galley, but we have to maintain a strict schedule. If we run out, we die. If you’re hungry now, go and purchase something from the market. We still have a few hours before we leave.”

“‘kay.” Yumyulack trots back down the ramp, and Korvo notices that he’s changed out of his robes and into his hunting suit. A flicker of pride warms his chest. He wonders how well it works, after all these years, and if it’s served his replicant well.

“Yumyulack,” he calls. Yumyulack pauses and glances expectantly at him. “That suit—what does it do?”

“It kills people,” Yumyulack says simply. “It’s pretty sweet.”

Korvo arches an eyebrow, as though he’s surprised by this information. “Where did you get one of those?”

“At the Academy. It was a gift.”

“Has it worked well for you?”

“I mean, yeah. I’m not dead, am I?” A flicker of suspicion goes through Yumyulack’s eyes—good. Korvo wants him to be shrewd. “Why?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it before, that’s all. I’m sorry to keep you. Go and get lunch.”

“Cool. Try not to leave without me.”

Pfft. As if Korvo would abandon him now, after all the work they’ve both put into keeping him alive. Yumyulack’s going to survive Schlorp’s destruction and whatever else follows—Korvo’s going to make  _ damn  _ sure of it. 

**Author's Note:**

> y'all ever just,,wonder about schlorpian culture and biology,,
> 
> like why is yumyulack a different shade of blue if he and korvo are genetically identical!! epigenetics, was it bc of epigenetics?? do aliens even have epigenetics?? or, or!! why do they have sex parts if they reproduce asexually!! or caN THEY DO BOTH?? if they can reproduce both ways do they have paternal instincts?? who raises the replicants?? who gave yumyulack his suit?? was it from his employers?? was a prepubescent boy actually a bounty hunter?? i have sO MANY QUESTIONS--


End file.
